*Hums a tune as she cleans up the commentary, purposefully avoiding the freaking immense amount of editing that actually heeds to be done*
During the year or so that Emma had been adopted— however roughly— By Brooklyn's tough and edgy Water Rats, Spot had grown on her. Though Emma was a firm and rabid foe of the "all things mushy" movement, she was forced to admit— grudgingly and under her breath—that Spot was the closest thing to a brother she was ever likely to have.
Spot had been her teacher, the most annoying person she'd known in all of her life, and even a sort of friend to her. It has been said— though softly, and far away from Brooklyn's volatile monarch— that, in Emma, Spot had met his match in sheer, block-headed, stubbornness. Emma's wry wit and Spot's narcissistic boasting clashed magnificently in even the most mundane of daily tasks. Whatever the conflict, the two oppositional newsies bickered and battered their way into a twisted, roughly sibling affection; vicious, argumentative siblings.
Trust was something Emma gave sparingly, and Spot, if he could help it, not at all. It became apparent, though, that if Emma were to trust anyone with a secret, it would probably be Spot. Similarly, if Spot never actually told anyone anything, Emma was likely to have figured it out anyway. (Though, notably, it was never quite established if this was infuriating or endearing to Spot's psyche. I suspect it was a rather confusing combination of the two.)
Emma placed the small, but memorable, event as having occurred just before all the excitement of the strike. Compared to the shimmering glory of that memory, it glowed warmly in Emma's small cache of uniquely important moments. She had grown into her newsie persona, settling nicely into her roll; carryin' that banner. She'd found herself sullenly admitting to herself the vague fondness she had for Brooklyn's Water Rats. She was settling in. If she had paused to examine that fact, Emma would have found that it mildly irritated her.
It had been an inoffensive evening, nearly dusk, after a sparring match, with Spot himself. They stood now, nursing their bruises, leaning against the railings of the Brooklyn Bridge. Neither was talking, or even doing, just standing there, watching the day end. Emma was letting her thoughts dance, feather-soft, over the dirty water, while Spot wore an unreadable, thoughtful, look.
It was he who broke the silence, his voice neither demanding, nor humorous, but solemn.
"Why were you cryin' that night, Emma?"
The question was long in coming, Emma knew, had known, one she had evaded and shrugged away. Only this time, she noted, he expected an answer. He had used her name. Besides, she owed it to him. He had taught her so much, shown her how to fight. Emma found herself pausing, seriously, considering how to best explain that night, those tears.
"Because I couldn't fight, Conlon." She finally allowed, looking him somberly in the eye. "Because I ran away from someone who should've been dumped, lifeless into the bay." She paused, a moment before admitting, honestly, "Because I was scared."
Emma turned her face back to the water, as he nodded, slowly, fingering the darkening bruise on his jaw where Emma'd landed a rough hit during the sparring.
Emma's own bruises were beginning to turn a deep, ugly colors from the absolute trouncing she'd received from him, but she was proud of how well she'd faired against the boy. This "legend" that every Brooklyn newsie with a brain respected. A respect, Emma was beginning to understand, that he deserved.
"Spot?" she said, quietly.
"Ynn?" he acknowledged, absently.
"Thanks."
"Yeah." There was a pause before he clarified.
"Just don't mention it. To any one. Ever."
A taunting smirk slipped it's way onto Emma's waiting mouth. "You're just mad 'cause I won the fight." she proclaimed, grandly, turning Spot's own advice against him and lying through her teeth.
The incredulous, offended look on Spot's face kept her laughing all the way back from the bridge.
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